The jury deliberated for six hours. Guilty on all counts β wire fraud, conspiracy, identity theft, unlawful interception of communications. The ringleader, a man named Marcus Webb who'd never set foot on Sycamore Lane but had run the whole operation from a rented office across the county, got fourteen years. The two from the van got nine and seven.
After the verdict, Daniel and Frank stood on the courthouse steps in the cold February air. Reporters had wanted interviews; Alvarez had waved them off.
"Fourteen years," Daniel said.
"Should've been twenty," Frank grunted. But he was smiling β a real smile, the kind Daniel had started seeing more often since Thanksgiving.
"Come on," Daniel said. "I'm buying lunch. Somewhere with tablecloths. We just took down a crime ring. We deserve tablecloths."
"I deserve a nap," Frank said, but he got in Daniel's car anyway.
14
March brought the first thaw, and with it, a letter that Frank didn't show Daniel for two weeks.
Daniel found out because Emma called. "Dad, have you talked to Mr. Delaney lately? He sounds weird."
"Weird how?"
"Quiet. Like, sad-quiet. Not grumpy-quiet. I called to ask about the chili recipe and he barely talked."
Daniel walked next door that evening. Frank was on the porch, no coffee, no whittling, just sitting.
"Emma says you're sad-quiet," Daniel said, sitting down uninvited.
"Emma talks too much," Frank said, but there was no heat in it.
"What's going on?"
Frank was silent for a long moment. Then he went inside and came back with an envelope β cream paper, like the one from Hale and Stern, but this one was worn soft at the edges, like it had been carried around for days.
"It's from my son," Frank said.
Daniel hadn't known Frank had a son. In six years of feuding and four months of friendship, it had never come up.
"David," Frank said. "He's forty-six. Lives in Oregon. We haven't spoken in β" He stopped. "Nine years."
"What happened?"
"The usual thing. The stupid thing." Frank stared at the envelope. "When Margaret got sick β the cancer, at the end β David wanted us to try some experimental treatment in Seattle. Cost a fortune, wasn't covered, Margaret didn't want it. I sided with Margaret. David said I was giving up on her. He wasn't at the funeral." Frank's voice went flat. "He sent flowers. White lilies. I threw them away."
Daniel didn't say anything. There was nothing to say.
"He's getting married," Frank said. "In June. The letter's an invitation. And β" he pulled out a second sheet β "a letter. Says he's sorry. Says he was angry at the cancer, not at me. Says he'd like me to come."
"Are you going to go?"
Frank looked at him, and Daniel saw a seventy-one-year-old man who'd faced down criminals on a telephone pole but was terrified of a wedding invitation.
"I don't know how," Frank said quietly.
"How to what?"
"How to be in a room with him after nine years. What do you say? 'Hi, sorry about the decade'?" Frank shook his head. "You got a letter from your father and you put it in a filing cabinet for six days. Don't tell me you don't understand."
Daniel smiled sadly. "I understand."
"Then tell me what to do."
Daniel thought about it. He thought about the letter in his own filing cabinet, about the words be better than me, son, about how he'd never gotten to say the things he needed to say to his father because he'd waited too long.
"Go," Daniel said. "And when you see him, don't start with the nine years. Start with now. 'Congratulations.' 'She's lovely.' 'I'm glad to be here.' The rest β it'll come. Or it won't. But be there."
Frank nodded slowly. "When did you get wise?"
"I'm not wise. I'm just a guy who missed his chance and doesn't want you to miss yours."
Frank folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. "June. Oregon. I've never been west of Chicago."
"Then it's about time."
15
April arrived with rain and the slow greening of Sycamore Lane. Daniel's life had settled into a shape he barely recognized β a good shape, but unfamiliar, like a new pair of shoes.
Work was going well. Priya had put him up for a promotion β senior analyst, with a team of three. He'd accepted, then spent a week terrified he'd made a mistake, then realized the terror was just what growth felt like.
Emma was thriving β dean's list, a summer internship at a nonprofit in the city, a boy who was "still just a friend, Dad, drop it."
And Frank β Frank was planning a trip to Oregon, which meant Frank was anxious, which meant Frank was on his porch every evening, whittling furiously and pretending he wasn't anxious.